By Your Side
by Blackbirdox
Summary: A fight with Eames forces Arthur to realize he can't live without him any more than he can live with him.


**Disclaimer: Nolan is a genius. I'm just borrowing what is rightfully his. **

**A/N: This started out as just a short little drabble that was going in a totally different direction but it got away from me and wound up writing itself for the most part. I'm not sure how I feel about it so I'd love to know what you think. Reviews of any kind are always appreciated!**

The air smells of nicotine and the whirls of smoke that are drifting around him are as shapeless and chaotic as the thoughts bouncing around in his head. Arthur doesn't panic, it's just not in his nature to do so, nor is it recommended in his line of work, but there's no denying the knot in his stomach and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, causing his heart to slam against his rib cage and the beat to echo in his ears.

He feels sick, a little dizzy, like someone has kicked the ground out from under his feet, leaving him in an awkward and uncomfortable state of free fall. His palms are sweaty and his face feels clammy and too hot and too pale. His hand trembles a little as he brings the cigarette back up to his lips and inhales deeply.

There are very few things that can make him nervous, fewer still that can make him come completely undone. And then there's only one thing that can completely turn his world upside down and put him in this odd sort of panicked and anxious state and that's Eames.

Eames and fighting with Eames and watching Eames pack and hearing Eames say that he's leaving, that he's done, and the sound of _goodbye Arthur_ as it rolls of Eames' tongue.

Fighting isn't uncommon for them- their whole relationship was built on arguments and snark and long days that bled into longer nights that were filled with rough and tumble rendezvous and muffled pillow talk that led to frustrated silences that led to making up. They always fight and they always come back to each other.

Days and months and sometimes even years can pass but they're about as stubborn as magnets when it comes to staying apart from each other and somehow, someway, gravity always forces them back together because neither one of them has the strength to keep their distance.

The subject of an end, of done, has never once come up, not until now, and Arthur's stomach rolls at the thought of it.

It had been his fault, the fight, and it had been him that had driven Eames away. His inability to relax, Eames had told him. His uncertainties and his fears and his inability to be open and honest and let himself be in love because, as Eames had so kindly reminded him, he had never actually admitted to that and how could they carry on a relationship when one of them was so obviously in denial?

Arthur wanted to scream that he did love him- that he always had, that he'd wanted him from the moment they were introduced and he'd laid eyes on Eames' hideous orange and yellow floral shirt and his trademark smirk- but he couldn't and he'd just stood there and asked, "Where are you going?"

Eames' curt reply of _home _had infuriated Arthur because this, the little apartment in New York that they'd shared for exactly six months, _this _was home for both of them.

"London?" he'd asked, the calm, unwavering tone of his voice shocking even him.

"London," Eames had repeated without so much as a glance in Arthur's direction as he zipped up his suitcase and hauled it off the bed as he headed towards the front door, leaving Arthur standing behind- speechless and wide eyed and mouth agape.

It's been around a half hour since then, the longest and the worst thirty minutes of Arthur's life. He's paced and tugged at his hair and called Eames' cell phone at least twenty times and he just doesn't know what to do anymore but he knows that he _can't_ let Eames go.

He can't not be with him or see him smile or hear him laugh or have his hair mussed or his tie pulled. He can't wake up to an empty bed and he can't fall asleep without a set of warm and strong arms locked around him, lips whispering sweet nothings into his ear like a lullaby. He can't go without being mocked or teased or called some horrid pet name that he pretends not to like even though he really does.

Arthur can't even bear the thought of being without Eames so he quickly stamps his cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table and scrambles around to grab his jacket and his wallet, nearly tripping over his own feet in a moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness.

He doesn't know where he's going; just that he has to go and that he'll find Eames eventually because he hasn't been gone that long and even if he manages to make it to the airport, which Arthur doubts because he's still unfamiliar with the landscape of the city, it's rather late, or early depending on how you look at it, and he's certain there won't be an available flight for at least a few more hours.

The door closes behind him with a loud slam and the lights in the hallway flicker overhead as Arthur breaks into a brisk walk, then a jog, and then a full fledged run.

He's in such a hurry to get to Eames that as he rushes out the front door, he doesn't even notice that Eames' is there, just sitting on the front stoop to their building with a cigarette in one hand and his suitcase perched on the step next to him, until he practically trips over him and Eames looks over his shoulder and says, "Going somewhere, pet?"

The familiar lilt in his accent and the faint quirk of a smile on his lips and the pet name- all of it gives Arthur the feeling of having his bones reduced to the consistency of jelly and he wearily sinks down on the step next to him, elbows resting on his drawn up knees and head in his hands.

"You never left," he breathes, and he's not sure if he's more relieved or angry at Eames for making him think that he had.

"You have always had a tendency to state the obvious, love," Eames replies, chuckling under his breath. "Nah," he continues. "Turns out it's bloody difficult to catch a cab this late."

He waves his hand in the direction of the empty streets for clarification even though both of them know and understand that Eames never left because he hadn't actually _wanted_ to leave.

Arthur sucks in a deep breath as he lifts his head, turning it in Eames' direction. "I love you," he says, and surprisingly enough, the words he always considered to be so hard to say, roll off his tongue effortlessly and without any hesitation.

Eames blinks, once, twice, and then again, and then he begins to laugh, tossing his head back so that the sound echoes through the otherwise silent night and causes the very tips of Arthur's ears to turn pink and a tick to work its way into his jaw.

"Well I know that," he responds after he regains his composure, and the blush spreads down into Arthur's cheeks.

"So all of that-."

"Was probably a tad overdramatic and uncalled for, yes," Eames interjects, offering a simple shrug of his shoulders. "But look at what it got me…"

Arthur narrows his eyes at him and for a second he thinks that if he didn't love him so much, he'd be strangling Eames with his tie. Eames just flutters his eyelashes in response and a sly grin spreads out across his face. "C'mere darling," he murmurs as he snakes his arm around Arthur's waist and pulls him flush against his side.

All of Arthur's tension immediately fades away and his head finds his way onto his partners shoulder, nuzzling his nose against the hollow of his throat and the feeling of Eames pulse racing beneath it, probably just as fast as his own, makes him smile because he knows now how invested he is- how invested they _both_ are- and a feeling of warmth begins to creep into his bones.

"I love you," he whispers and Eames chuckles, low in his throat, the vibrations reverberating against Arthur's mouth as he presses a kiss there.

"I quite like hearing you say that," Eames says as he strokes his fingers through Arthur's hair. "I love you too, sweetheart."

Arthur hums in contentment as his eye lids flutter shut. "Don't call me sweetheart," he grumbles, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric- the very bright and horrendous fabric- of Eames shirt.

Eames just laughs.

And if there's one thing that can completely turn his world upside down and fill him with the feeling of sheer joy and love, it's Eames. Eames' laughter and Eames' smile and the way his lips feel when he lavishes a gentle kiss to the crown of Arthur's head and the way his fingers begin to stroke his side and the sound of Eames, the very definition of a burly and masculine man, whispering _I love you_ over and over again- everything about him that is just so perfectly imperfect and every little infurating and irritating quirk and habit. Just Eames.


End file.
